


According to Plan

by Adryssos



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Fear and blood and general darkness, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:07:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5416367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adryssos/pseuds/Adryssos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson is not doing too well this winter. And then matters take a turn for the worse.</p>
<p>(I'm warning you all right now, this is not a happy story, and the warnings are there for a reason, even though it might take a few chapters to get to them.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, this intro just sort of happened. It was more a tool to get the story going than anything else, but I hope it caught your attention, anyway. Poor Wilson is going to have a fun few weeks in the future. Well, fun for me. Hell for him.  
> Oh, you'll see.

_I share my nights with spiders and shadows, and my days with the unforgiving cold. If I do not find food soon, I fear I will not see another dawn, but the eyes are watching, waiting, and the snow is biting whenever I stray too far from the fire._

Wilson stopped writing and curled more around his only source of warmth. He had not even seen any rabbits ever since he stepped through Maxwell’s door. No rabbits, no beefalos, nothing with fur that could keep him warm, and his own clothes did little to protect him from the icy winds. Fire was his best friend, but it was demanding, hungry, fickle. The Scientist could never stray too far from it before his limbs felt numb from the cold, but it was the only way to get more wood and grass, his only way of getting somewhere was to constantly carry enough supplies with him to start a fire, anywhere, at any time, and some saplings and pinecones to keep it going. Five cones could get him through the night, if he timed it well, adding the new one just when the fire was about to die – but the method was dangerous. A few nights ago, he had been too slow, could not get his exhausted muscles to react in time, and his punishment had been instant as the shadows reached him. Five cuts across his back, thankfully not too deep, but weakening him nonetheless, and he had _seen_ the shadowy hand retreat once the fire flared up.

Still, neither the fire, nor the warmth helped against the voice in the shadows, mocking, taunting, laughing. He could hear it almost every night, telling him of wonderful feasts and banquets, of grilled chicken and pork and beef and potatoes and eggs and tea and wine. This night was no exception, and the mere _thought_ of honey made him want to cry. At this point, Wilson could not say what would eventually kill him anymore – the cold, the hunger, or the shadows.

It was around three in the morning when he finally fell asleep, shivering in the almost-darkness of his tiny fire, not expecting to wake up in the morning.

However, he did wake. The sun was already up, though not for long, and at first, Wilson did not know what had raised him, until he heard it again – a low, menacing growl, echoed by three other throats, a sound that shook the very ground.

_Hounds_.

 


	2. A Spark of Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What are you prepared to sacrifice to live?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so this is another short one, because I realised I never actually continued this. The chapters will be longer from the third one onwards, but I wanted to get back into the swing of things. Enjoy?

At first, Wilson could not find the will to get up and run. There was no point, the hounds were faster than him, and they did not tire. His chances of outrunning them were nonexistent, and he no longer had anything to fight them with, save for his bare hands. But something sparked in him, something fierce and stubborn, and he dragged himself up, first to scrawny, scraped, bleeding knees, then to his feet, and a moment later, Wilson was running, stumbling though calf-high snow, driven by sheer desperation. 

Run. Hide. Escape. Flee. 

The forest. 

The forest was his chance, he thought, if he could just… if he could… his mind was foggy from lack of food and exhaustion, but he pushed through, frantically brushing branches away. The harsh wood was cutting his palms, but he had no time to care, not right now. He needed to get away. Needed to do something. There had been a plan in his mind, half formed, barely coherent, and absolutely mad, depending on luck like nothing he’d ever done. Then again, luck was all he had left. 

And then, deep in the forest where the trees were crowded together as if they were trying to shield each other from the winter winds, Wilson stopped, panting and gasping for air. His sides were burning and his legs were almost giving out, but he’d made it in time, he was where he needed to be.

And he waited. 

He could hear them before he could see them, bloodthirsty growls and hellish paws on snow. And then there were shapes, legs and fangs and fur, black against the almost impeccably white landscape. Wilson’s eyes narrowed, his pulse hammering in his ears. Black. Just black, no red in sight, and he was almost tempted to laugh triumphantly. 

He forced himself to stand still until the hounds were close enough to smell him, catch his scent, the panic thrumming in his veins along with his blood, and yes, Wilson was afraid, terrified, in fact, but he’d be damned if he rolled over and let them rip him apart without a fight. And so he fought, with a few quick flicks of his wrist and a few short-lived sparks in the chilly air, with the last grass and the sorry excuse for a twig he had left, with his last friend. 

For fire was hungry, and there was nothing it liked better than wood.

The hounds were close now, barely a leap away, but the dry trees caught the fire almost immediately, and the last thing Wilson heard as he continued running on sore feet was the panicked yelp of the first hound whose fur was set aflame by the inferno he had started.


End file.
